Australian Dreams. Fiona McCallum

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      Claire’s heart pounded heavily as she turned into the driveway and the car vibrated over the cattle grid. As she made her way up the corrugated rubble track, she felt an odd sensation that everything had changed yet nothing had changed.

      The wild oats wavered in the stiff breeze just like they always did this time of year. Cream–coloured dust rose in a cloud behind her car. The gum trees stood in the same solemn rows, neither bluer nor browner nor even any taller. The only changes were the empty roadside paddocks: the absence of colts and fillies frolicking about, their owner’s hopes resting on their withers. A crow scrounged about on the ground, picking through old piles of dung for something edible.

      Claire’s throat tightened. It was too hard. She should have waited for Bernie after all. She stopped the car, turned in her seat to see how far she’d come, then turned back to look up the track. She was over halfway.

      Claire closed her eyes and conjured how it used to be: Jack out there in his trademark Akubra, Yakka work pants, long sleeves, and oilskin coat when it was cold; long-reining a youngster along the fence, teaching it all about the bit, changing direction, and balance. It was what he’d been doing when he’d had his accident. Bill and Daphne had found him on the ground and the horse grazing nearby, the long reins trailing behind him. God knew how they’d managed to catch the damn animal and get all the gear off safely – that one had been a snarly beast at the best of times. They’d followed the ambulance to the city and called Claire from the hospital.

      Claire opened her eyes and studied the area around her. Thankfully there was no sign of what had happened. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think again about the good times.

      When she was younger, Claire had always arrived in jodhpurs and boots, with helmet and gloves in the car. Often when she’d rolled down the window to wave he’d stop and call out, ‘Love, would you mind just hopping on him for me?’

      Ninety percent of the horses he’d trained had had her on their backs first. She’d loved being included, even after choosing a career outside racing. She still liked the idea of it, just liked the regular income more. She’d seen how much her mother had gone without. But she’d also seen how much she’d loved her husband. Grace McIntyre would have lived in a caravan without complaint if she’d had to. There was no way Claire could have done it.

      Claire was glad her father hadn’t just given up on life after her mother had died suddenly of a heart attack five years ago. Though she had noticed much of the enthusiasm had left him. It was like he was just going through the motions. No longer could he run in the kitchen door, clutching his stopwatch to show his latest protégé’s time, face beaming like a little boy’s. They’d been the perfect team: Jack the passionate one, prone to getting carried away; СКАЧАТЬ