Riggs Crossing (14 page)

At the foot of the hill away from the street, the grass turns to dirt. It’s the old stables, with maybe sixty or so stalls. The wood is grey and weather-beaten, but I doubt these stables were anything flash even when they were new. There are horseshoes lying around all over the place. I pick one up. What horse wore this shoe? Did he win his race? Where is he now?

‘Stupid donkey!’ Ernie yells at the TV, banging the armrests of the chair, his face purple. He’s choking back all the words he can’t use in front of me. ‘Damn that horse and damn Aaron for his goddam hot tip! Bloody thing belongs in a Pal can!’

I let the horseshoe fall into the dirt. Some people say horseshoes and rabbits’ feet are lucky. Tell that to the horse. Tell that to the rabbit.

‘There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around, that the colt from old Regret had got away,’ Daddy reads, with me sitting on his lap.

There’s a lot of old regret here. But I guess it’s less ugly than the new regret I just left.

I walk back up the hill and queue for the buses with the crowds of noisy people. I have to, or I won’t get back to the Refuge by curfew. For the next quarter hour, I’m stuck amidst loud, drunken bogans, praying that another fight doesn’t break out and feeling like everyone’s staring at me ’cause I’m here alone. By the time I’m crammed into the aisle of the bus, thirsty and tired and pressed against the back of some girl in a pink nylon dress who smells of cheap perfume and beer, I know Daddy was right. Horse racing is for mugs, and right now, I’m feeling like one myself.

When we’ve finished our geography lesson on Monday, Miss Dunn makes a pot of tea and asks what I did on the weekend. I tell her about the races, about the jockeys with the big heads on tiny bodies, about the tattooed Westie chick and the screeching girls with their silly hats, about the sad statues and the horse that smiled at me before he was taken away to wee into a pan. I don’t tell her about the guy with the shirt that said ‘Free Dick’, or mention that I went into the pub.

‘I didn’t like the kind of people I saw there.’ What I mean is that I was hoping to see people like Clarissa Hobbs or the girls in the Racing Carnival ads, but I don’t say this. I still feel embarrassed for caring so much about a TV show.

Miss Dunn arranges two cups on a tray. ‘You didn’t tell Lyyssa where you were going, did you?’

‘Um, no.’

Miss Dunn pours the tea and gets that look on her face when she’s about to say something that she knows she really shouldn’t say to someone my age. ‘Len, people who go to the racetrack aren’t the best sort. If they’d been alive five hundred years ago, they would have gone to see a bear baiting.’

Bear baiting. I don’t even want to know what that means.

‘Anyway,’ Miss Dunn says, ‘if you like horses, or animals in general, you should stay right away from the racetrack. You don’t want to know what they do to those horses to make them run fast. Or what happens to them when their racing careers are over. They end up as dog food.’

Aggie prances around in the paddock, pawing the ground, shaking his head
. I slam that part of my mind shut.

‘Len,’ Miss Dunn says, a bit loudly. She’s been talking to me. I snap out of my Aggie daydream.

‘Do you like horses?’ she repeats.

I like Aggie. I miss Aggie.

‘Len, do you like horses??’

‘I hate girls who “like horses”,’ I snap back. ‘There was a stupid girl at the Refuge who had pictures of horses all over her room, and she’d never even seen one, except on TV. There are nice horses and mean horses and pretty horses and ugly horses. It doesn’t make sense to say that you “like horses”. You have to know the horse before you know if you like it or not. And you’re wrong about them all ending up as dog food. Some of them end up as pets. My dad had horses.’ I feel my nose burn like it does before I start to cry. ‘You think you know everything.’

Miss Dunn gives me a long look. ‘Critical thinking skills. That’s what I’m trying to teach you. It’s fine for you to point out a flaw in my logic, but I don’t appreciate your tone.’ She takes another sip of tea without taking her eyes off me. ‘And speaking of people who think they know everything, is there anybody else in the Refuge you
don’t
think is stupid?’

I drop my eyes.

‘The reason I asked if you like horses is that I know a very talented horse trainer. He doesn’t normally give riding lessons to children, but he
might
agree to give you a lesson a week, provided you help him with mucking out boxes and such. Are you interested?’

I can’t look up. ‘Yes.’ I’m still mad at her for telling me off.

‘Right. I’ll call him. His name’s Reynaldo. But I want you to understand that we are asking a big favour from someone who is a master of his craft. Ray won’t tolerate any rudeness or laziness on your part, and neither will I.’

Daddy used to tell me off if I was lazy or rude. I can’t stand being told off by a woman. All Daddy’s girlfriends
were
stupid. I look up. I don’t know what to say to Miss Dunn or how to say it.

Miss Dunn looks at the clock. ‘Our time is up. Maybe you could talk to Lyyssa about your father’s horses.’

I have to form the words in my head and push them through my mouth. ‘I don’t want to talk to Lyyssa about my father. Please don’t tell her what I said. I want to help with your friend’s horses. I won’t be rude or lazy.’ I shove my books into my backpack. ‘Thanks,’ I say, then walk out of Miss Dunn’s office, tripping over my own feet.

Chapter 34

Reynaldo looks sort of Asian, but not entirely. You can’t tell where he comes from by the way he talks. His skin is a golden colour. He has black, almond-shaped eyes and would have black hair if he didn’t shave his head. He has a scar running across his left cheekbone, a deep gouge. Miss Dunn said he used to live in Los Angeles and worked in the film industry.

So what’s he doing in Sydney, mucking out boxes for rich people who can’t be arsed looking after their own horses? I don’t even know how or why Miss Dunn knows him. To ask Reynaldo where he comes from or how he got his scar or why he’s doing menial work or how Miss Dunn knows him would be rude, but that’s not why I don’t ask. Reynaldo is a quiet person. To ask him these questions would be
breaking the quiet.

Breaking the quiet
is an idea I thought up. I only think that idea around Reynaldo. Most people are full of pointless noise. Even if they’re not noisy, it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing to ask them something. But with Reynaldo, you just know that if it’s not about horses, you shouldn’t ask him.

I talked about him to Lyyssa without telling her who I meant. Maybe she figured out who I meant but didn’t let on. Anyway, Lyyssa said it was good that I understood that with certain people, some topics were off-limits.

Off-limits isn’t the same thing as
breaking the quiet.
But it’s close enough.

Reynaldo never asks me where I come from, or how I like the Refuge, or anything except what I’m doing with the horses. He knows not to break the quiet with me, either.

Reynaldo shows me how to muck out a box, wash down a horse, pick out its hooves, curry its coat and brush the mane and tail, clean the tack, put on the saddle and bridle. He tells me how to tell if a horse is angry or annoyed, what it means when they swish their tail or pin their ears back. After a few weeks, he tells me I can start learning how to ride.

I’d almost forgotten that’s what I was there for.

I liked looking after the horses so much that I didn’t particularly care about riding them. I like it when Dolly leans down and sniffs my back when I’m drying her feet so she doesn’t get greasy heel. I like it when Buster closes his eyes and leans into the sponge when I’m washing his face.

‘Len, would you like to have your first lesson today?’ Reynaldo repeats. I’m standing there with a head stall and lead rope in my hand. I was off in a daydream. Reynaldo speaking to me makes me forget which horse I’m attending to.

‘Um, yes. Which horse was I supposed to shampoo?’

‘You can shampoo Buster after our lesson. You’re riding Dex.’

On the bus on the way home, I decide I’m not going to talk to anyone about Dex. No one who doesn’t know horses would understand. Anybody who does know horses doesn’t need to be told about him. Another variation of
not breaking the quiet
.

Chapter 35

Progress Report

Patient: Len Russell/Samantha Patterson

Caseworker: Lyyssa Morgan

An enormous improvement has occurred in Len’s conduct during psychotherapy sessions. She is now actively participating rather than displaying passive-aggression through monosyllabic responses or silence. Len still claims not to remember events prior to her accident, and continues to parry any question or remark that she perceives as an intrusion on her privacy or autonomy. Nevertheless, Len is now willing to share certain observations and feelings. This transformation seemed to coincide with Len’s work experience with horses under the supervision of Reynaldo Klaas, a renowned horse trainer. Although Reynaldo Klaas has no tertiary qualifications in psychotherapy or social work, he has successfully worked with young offenders in the juvenile justice system on a volunteer basis.

Len enjoys talking about the horses she is being trained to care for, ascribing distinct personalities to each animal. She also enjoys giving detailed, almost technical descriptions of how to saddle, bridle, bathe and ride horses. Unsurprisingly, in view of her intelligence and her lack of interest in books and entertainment aimed at younger teenagers, Len has requested an expensive colouring book intended for students of equine anatomy. The book is a series of line drawings mapping out the various bones, tendons and ligaments of the horse. Funding for this book cannot be requested through the Department, as it falls outside the guidelines for required educational materials, but the Salvation Army has agreed to purchase the book and accompanying text.

Although Len has mentioned that she would like to become a horse trainer, it is to be hoped that she will choose another career path, one that offers greater security and is more in keeping with her academic potential. I have requested that Renate Dunn, Len’s tutor, introduce her to the idea of a career in veterinary medicine.

Perhaps the greatest observable improvement in Len since the start of her work experience with Reynaldo Klaas has been the improvement in her conduct toward others. She is less critical of her peers and less suspicious of those in positions of authority, myself included. I am optimistic that Len will continue to transfer the concepts of mutual respect that she has learnt to situations outside of the stables and in her future life.

Chapter 36

Tonight’s episode of
Clarissa Hobbs
is about how Clarissa deals with Hamish, a lawyer at the firm who’s having an affair with Susannah, who’s still in law school and working for the summer as a clerk. Everybody knows what they’re up to, but nobody says anything. It’s an open secret.

‘It’s disgusting, the way Hamish is using that young girl,’ Clarissa fumes to her friend Barbara as they lunch at a pricey restaurant.

‘Oh, Clarissa, don’t be naive.’ Barbara takes a drag of her cigarette and looks amused. ‘Office romances are nothing new.’

Clarissa and Barbara argue about whether it’s immoral or unethical for a boss to have an affair with his secretary or clerk. After the commercials, the scene has changed to the law offices. Clarissa is walking purposefully down the hall. She’s got that half-smile on her face, the one she gets when she’s figured out the solution to a particularly difficult problem.

‘Nooo!’ screams Lyyssa from her office, as all the lights go out, Cinnamon’s stereo goes quiet, the TV goes dark, Shane starts to scream and Karen starts to howl.

‘What happened?’ Cinnamon stomps down the stairs in her bathrobe with wet hair, then whirls around and yells back up the staircase at Shane and Karen. ‘SHUT UP, both of you!’ And they do. Like someone flicked an OFF switch. Cinnamon goes straight to Lyyssa’s office. ‘What did you do?’

‘I just switched on the air conditioner.’

‘Look at how many things you’ve got turned on in here! EVERYBODY knows you don’t use that many appliances at once! You’ll overload the switchboard! Where’s the fuse box?’

‘Cinnamon, I can’t allow you to try to fix this. I’ll call the handyman. Electricity is dangerous.’

‘It’s only dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing,’ Cinnamon says coldly. ‘My step-dad’s an electrician. Now where’s the fuse box?’

The show’s over by the time Cinnamon does what she needs to, the power comes back on and the TV comes back to life. As the credits roll, I glimpse the title of tonight’s episode: ‘An Open Secret’.

The rest of this week is going to be like having an itch that you can’t scratch.

I get myself a Gatorade from the refrigerator and take it upstairs. I lie on my bed, trying to work out what happened after Clarissa and Barbara’s lunch. I stare at the moulding around the light fixture. A spider has started building a web. I’ll have to get a broom tomorrow and get rid of it.

Open Secrets.

Riggs Crossing was full of open secrets. Lots of people were cropping or dealing. People were sleeping with each other’s wives or girlfriends. Women had babies that came from men who weren’t their husbands or boyfriends.

One day when he was in town, Daddy saw a girl from the commune wheeling around a baby that everyone knew didn’t come from her boyfriend. I heard him tell Ernie about it. But since the girl’s boyfriend was an arsehole, Daddy thought it was funny. And what made it even funnier was that the real father of that baby was the husband of Vera the postmistress, who knew about the baby and was furious about it. So to get even, Vera had it off with the girl’s boyfriend, even though she didn’t like him any more than anyone else did.

Another open secret was how real croppers and dealers dealt with wannabe croppers and dealers. Kids wearing Doc Martens blew in from Sydney on motorcycles, or in big hotted-up V8 Coke-bottle Fords. They camped at the commune, or in some rented shack. They’d be mouthing off in the bottom pub, bragging about ‘contacts’ and ‘drops’ and ‘elbows’ and ‘short croppers’ and ‘hydro’ and other stuff you’re not supposed to talk about in public. Someone would hear. He’d catch the eye of someone else who heard, then look around to see who else was listening. Four or five men would simply look at each other, then go back to their beers. Nothing was ever said. A few days later, Wonder Boy just up from Sydney would disappear. In a rainforest, there are lots of places you can disappear.

You can’t have some brash young kid mouthing off and attracting attention, bringing the heat in. Nobody felt good about these young boys disappearing. But nobody felt bad about it, either. They brought it on themselves.

There was one open secret that everybody did feel bad about.

A man lived further down the road, in a little shack Daddy never took me to. A man they called the Scoutmaster. In his shack, there were phrases in Thai on pieces of paper tacked up all over the walls. What time does the boat leave? Which way to the station? May I have some tea?

‘How much for that little boy?’ Ernie says sarcastically, crunching an empty beer can in his fist. He’s just come from the Scoutmaster’s place. He opens another can of beer. It’s summer, and I’m on the back verandah, pretending to be asleep. ‘Mate, it was all I could do not to knock his teeth out, the dirty bastard. I know what he gets up to in Thailand, rock spider that he is.’ Ernie’s shoulders are tight. He’s drinking a lot of beer. I know he’s not getting along with his missus. She’d better have the sense to keep out of his way tonight, otherwise she’ll cop the hiding Ernie wanted to give the Scoutmaster.

‘Save yourself the trouble,’ Daddy says in a low voice.

The Scoutmaster did get a hiding, but not for having sex with little boys in Thailand. He shot at a police helicopter that was hovering over his crop in the thick forest. The helicopter didn’t crash, but it flew away. The Scoutmaster thought he was pretty clever, shooting from underneath bracken where the police in the helicopter couldn’t see him. But some other croppers heard where the shots were coming from and showed up at his place an hour and a half later. They felt his rifle. It was still warm. They beat the crap out of him for doing something stupid that might bring the heat in.

The Scoutmaster got his nose and several of his ribs broken. But it didn’t matter. He recovered, sold his crop, and went to Thailand after Easter.