On the Right Track Page 22

  ‘It’s only me,’ he says.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  He shuffles his feet. ‘Wanted to see who it was. Didn’t recognise the horse.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  He jerks his head. ‘I was sent to pick up those two. Why are you here?’

  ‘Solomon wanted to see Pepper.’

  When the stablehands walk past us one of them calls out. ‘We’re done, Tomas. Need a hand loading Peppercorn, Golden?’

  ‘I’ll be fine on my own.’

  ‘See you later, then.’

  ‘Better get going,’ Tomas says to me.

  ‘Wait!’

  Tomas’s eyes dart from the departing stablehands to me and back again. Have I spooked him? I shouldn’t have shouted. I smile in an attempt to set him at ease, but my lips feel stiff.

  ‘When we spoke at Rosehill, you said my father did what he did for the jockeys. What did you mean?’

  He looks towards the stablehands, laughing near the exit. ‘It’s ancient history now.’ He can barely keep still he’s so jumpy. I try not to look at him, focusing instead on tightening the chinstrap of Pepper’s halter.

  ‘I want to find out about my father, Tomas. I want to know why he left.’

  ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘What happened, it had nothing to do with your granddad.’

  ‘But it did have something to do with my father, didn’t it?’

  ‘That fella who was with you at Randwick, the tall one, asking Marc questions. He still around?’

  I hesitate. ‘That’s Tor Amundsen. Yes, he’s still here, but not for long. Anyway, he was interested in other things, gambling in Asia, and money laundering.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  Months ago I told Tor he would only get information out of Tomas if he did it through me. I was right about that.

  ‘What happened, Tomas, why did my father go to Hong Kong?’

  ‘Tomas!’ one of the stablehands shouts. ‘You coming or not?’

  When he turns away I put my hand on his arm. ‘Can I meet you another time, for a coffee?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Best not.’

  ‘I’m going to Bowral in a couple of weeks, to the Bong Bong races. Will you talk to me there?’

  ‘Alone?’

  Tomas is nervous, not dangerous. Even though I’m not a spy I can see that. ‘Yes, just me.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says.

  Tor,

  Would you mind if I talked to Tomas by myself at Bowral? He was afraid when I saw him at Rosehill. I don’t think he’ll tell us anything if you’re standing next to me.

  Golden,

  We’re doing this my way. I thought I made that clear. Under no circumstances are you to approach Tomas Farmer—in Bowral or anywhere else. Understood?

  My limp must be more noticeable than usual because no one dares to mention it, not even Dr Makepeace. He sticks his head out of his open office door when I walk out of the speech pathology rooms with my fifth client of the day.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind putting my feet up,’ he says. ‘Would you care to join me at the cafe for afternoon tea?’

  Twenty minutes later, I’m halfway through my coffee, and he’s jiggling his tea bag in his teapot again. He pours himself a second cup.

  ‘How are you travelling on the bridle path? Or was it a racetrack? Have you been going around your obstacle?’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘You know very well it was a racetrack. And that’s a personal question.’

  He laughs. ‘They’re a terrible habit of mine. You don’t have to answer.’

  I sip my coffee, then sigh. ‘I’ve been crashing into my obstacle. Regularly.’ I stretch my leg out. ‘That’s why I’m hobbling around.’

  Dr Makepeace sits up straighter. ‘He hurt your leg?’

  ‘No! He’d never hurt … I hurt my leg by galloping Pepper at Randwick, which was after I’d collided with my obstacle.’

  Dr Makepeace raises his brows. ‘Is it possible to change your tactics?’

  I open my mouth to respond and close it again. I often infuriate Tor. And he wasn’t just angry when he found out about Grandpa’s folders, and the money Angelina gave Marc. I think he was hurt because I hadn’t trusted him. The fact he’d been making love to me in the lead-up to both events didn’t help my case. But jumping over him, or knocking him down, have no more likelihood of success than they did months ago.

  ‘I don’t think a change in tactics would work. Anyway, it’s not like my obstacle will be here for much longer. Unlike Eric.’

  ‘The wicked stepfather?’

  ‘He’s going to sell my home.’

  Dr Makepeace nods while I fill him in. Then makes his finger steeple and looks at me through it.

  ‘It’s quite natural to feel angry, and hurt,’ he says. ‘Particularly given your closeness to your grandfather, and the attachment he had to his land. He was the one who named you, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a lot of golden wattle at home.’

  ‘What characteristics do they have?’

  I shrug. ‘Acacia pycnantha has small flowers and a delicate scent. Birds like the seeds. It’s not a large tree, but it grows quickly and it’s tough.’

  Dr Makepeace smiles as he gets to his feet. He neatly stacks our cups and saucers and then takes my arm. We walk the length of the corridor before he speaks.

  ‘Small and hardy,’ he says. ‘Fancy that.’

  Small and hardy. I feel stronger after speaking to Dr Makepeace. So much so that on Monday morning I make a call to the National Parks body to have my suspicions confirmed. Then I call Eric, who sounds surprised to hear my voice even though he’s left numerous messages on my phone inviting me to come to Clovelly for dinner.

  ‘I don’t want to come to dinner,’ I say. ‘But I do need to see you. Can I come to your parliamentary office on Thursday, after I’ve finished at the hospital? To settle things.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he says. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  He ushers me into his office and offers me coffee as soon as I arrive.

  ‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ he says. ‘And stop trying to hide your limp. What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve been on my feet most of the day, that’s all.’

  He pretends to tidy the neat piles of documents on his desk. ‘Your mother sends her love. Sit down, Golden. Make yourself comfortable.’

  ‘No, thank you. I want to get this over with. I know what you’ve done. You’ve already sold my land.’

  It’s against his gentlemanly code of conduct to sit while I’m standing. Nevertheless, he backs himself into his chair. He’s flushed, but I’m determined not to feel sorry for him.

  ‘How did you find out?’ he says.

  ‘Once you make up your mind about something you usually act on it immediately. Knowing that, I called an officer from National Parks. He told me everything.’

  ‘He had no right.’

  ‘I pretended I was aware of the details and asked him to clarify a few things. It’s no wonder you managed to settle the sale so quickly—they’re hardly paying anything. Then again, it was never about the money, was it?’

  Eric won’t look at me. ‘The money will clear the debt between us, with sufficient left over as a nest egg for you. I will top it up, no strings attached, once you find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘Like a town house, or apartment?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I walk to the door. ‘Do you seriously think I’d ever be beholden to you again? After what you’ve done?’

  ‘Your mother and I think this is for the—’

  ‘I don’t care what you think, or what she thinks. I want nothing to do with either of you. Stop calling me. And don’t use Angelina to get to me either.’

  Instead of running down the fire stairs, I catch the lift, swallowing hard, determined not to cry. My phone sounds a text as I walk to the carpark. It’s from Tor
.

  What time can I see you tomorrow?

  CHAPTER

  33

  Ramsay runs ahead of me through the paddock, under the rails and into the garden. He’s holding Seashell against his chest by the time I reach the steps to the verandah. The cat gazes unblinkingly at me with a long-suffering expression as I prise open Ramsay’s arms.

  ‘Sorry, puss. Ramsay, please sit down with your iPad.’

  Ramsay leaps onto the wicker sofa and puts his iPad on his lap. I stretch out my leg and gingerly sit next to him.

  As I press icons, I speak the words. ‘Thank you for waiting for me at the top of the steps.’

  He points to my leg and presses an icon that denotes pain—an egghead clutching his bandaged arm.

  ‘It’s kind of you to think about me, Ramsay, very kind and thoughtful. I’m sore because I rode Pepper too fast. Do you go too fast on your bike sometimes? Tell me in a sentence.’

  Ramsay throws the iPad onto my lap, jumps off the sofa and races around the verandah with his arms held out to his sides. I close my eyes for a moment. And then the doorbell rings. When Ramsay freezes I manage to grasp his hand. His eyes are wide; he’ll know it’s too early for his father to arrive.

  Tor stands in the shadows on the porch. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt that clings to his biceps and chest. Even though I’ve been expecting him, my heart thumps uncomfortably against my ribs. Ramsay points to the driveway and tries to pull his other hand free, but I keep a firm hold.

  ‘You’re late, Tor. Ramsay’s father picks him up on the way home from work. He’ll be twenty minutes at least.’

  ‘May I wait here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Besides the emails we exchanged last week, and the texts from yesterday, I haven’t had any contact with him since I saw him at Clovelly a few weeks ago. Maybe we really are strangers now, and that’s why we’re communicating like robots. Ramsay yanks on my hand so hard I take a backwards step to keep my balance. Tor extends his hand then withdraws it.

  ‘Come in,’ I say. ‘Ramsay, do you remember Tor? You spoke to him on the phone. He likes to go skiing in December, and he likes pine trees.’

  Ramsay turns his back on Tor, but Tor talks to him anyway. ‘Hello, Ramsay. We met at Golden’s birthday party.’

  Ramsay pulls at my fingers and lifts them. When I don’t release his hand, he bangs his head on my arm repeatedly.

  ‘Could you wait in the living room, Tor? Seashell’s in there.’

  Why did I say that? In the hope my cat will keep him company and make him feel welcome?

  I feel Tor’s eyes on my back as I walk slowly to the verandah, keeping hold of both of Ramsay’s hands. It forces him to walk sideways and slows him.

  By the time his father pushes open the screen door and stands on the threshold to the verandah, Ramsay has calmed down and is sitting on the sofa next to me. His dad had barely used a computer before Ramsay started with the iPad, but now works diligently to communicate with his son. Tor leans against the doorframe and watches as the three of us bend our heads over the iPad. Ramsay’s father methodically searches for icons.

  Let’s go home.

  ‘Your dad has made a great sentence, Ramsay. “Let’s go home”.’

  I glance at Tor. Last time I saw him I told him he could go back to New York or Brussels or wherever he called home. Is that why he narrows his eyes? When Ramsay’s father hands me the iPad, I press icons too. Have fun with your dad.

  Ramsay makes a loud whooping noise and it’s impossible not to laugh. ‘I love to hear your voice,’ I say.

  Tor is standing on the verandah looking over the paddocks when I get back from showing Ramsay out.

  ‘Can we talk down at the stables?’ I say. ‘The light bulb in the feed room has blown and it’ll be hard to see what I’m doing if I don’t get down there soon.’

  He ignores what I’ve said and points to my iPad. ‘That’s how Ramsay communicates? Is that what you were explaining when I called from Hong Kong?’

  I pick up the iPad. ‘Ramsay might never communicate verbally, but he can articulate what he’s thinking using this. He’s such a smart kid. He should be able to find a job when he’s older, and do lots of other things.’

  ‘Like form relationships?’ he says, frowning. ‘Why did you choose to be a speech pathologist? You must see the irony.’

  I look away, over the railing towards the stables. ‘Maybe I want my children to do better than I do.’

  ‘They can’t do much worse.’

  He watches as I press icons, doing my best to keep my hand steady. It is late. I am tired. I want to go to the horses.

  He nods abruptly, and then walks down the steps. The ghost gum trunk casts a long spindly shadow over the garden. Pepper nickers gently from the stable yard. Fudge trots up the hill and leans over the gate.

  I thread my fingers through Fudge’s forelock and trail them down his blaze. In winter his coat is thick, fluffy and cream. He’s losing that coat now, and patches of gold appear on his neck and shoulders. I push him out of the way so I can open the gate.

  ‘Back up, boy. Or you’ll never get your dinner.’

  ‘Eric called me,’ Tor says.

  When we get to the stable yard, I skirt around him and walk to the feed room. ‘I thought he would. He’d want to give his side of the story.’

  ‘I’m sorry he’s done this.’

  When I turn, I see him through tears. ‘I’ve got six months. That’s something. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I didn’t believe he’d go through with it.’

  ‘Yeah, well. He did.’

  Besides tightening his lips, Tor doesn’t respond. He watches silently as I fill buckets with chaff and pellets, then blocks my way and refuses to move until I put the buckets down on the bumpy brick floor. Grandpa laid the floor. He picked up a load of old bricks when a neighbouring house was demolished and brought them home, before setting them out in a herringbone pattern. He surprised me with his artistry when I came home from boarding school one Christmas. When more tears threaten I wipe an impatient arm across my eyes.

  Tor carries the buckets then waits for me to show him where he should put the feed. Fudge snorts softly and buries his face in the stable yard trough. Pepper does the same in her stable. When I walk to the tack room and reach up to the rack for Pepper’s night rug, Tor leans over my shoulder and takes it down.

  ‘For Pepper?’ he says.

  I nod.

  Not once do we touch, and he doesn’t say another word until we’ve done up all the buckles. His tone is measured, cool, dispassionate.

  ‘The Bong Bong races at Bowral. Do you still want to be involved?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Garcia is expecting both of us. Nate will be there as well. There’s a cocktail party at Garcia’s home in Bowral on Thursday fortnight, and the races run on Friday. Have you spoken to Eric lately?’

  ‘He’s left messages. I haven’t called him back.’

  ‘He suggested we stay at his property, Grasmere, on Thursday evening. As it’s relatively close to Bowral I said that we would. It ties us in with Eric and his political and social contacts rather than the racing crowd, making it an excellent cover.’

  It’s an effort to breathe normally. ‘Grasmere?’

  Tor is staring. ‘What’s the matter?’

  When I was at Grasmere my jaw was wired, my leg was prodded and poked by nurses and doctors and physios, and I was in and out of hospital. I was grieving because I couldn’t be a jockey. I was heartbroken because Grandpa had sent me to Eric. So it’s odd there was so much I loved about being there: the old sandstone homestead with the broad verandahs and steeply pitched roof; the hectares of verdant green paddocks; the paperbarks, blue gums and grey gums; the river and the escarpment.

  I blink up at Tor. ‘Nothing’s the matter. It’s been a while since I was there, that’s all.’

  ‘There’s something you’re no
t telling me.’

  I shake my head. ‘Eric won’t be there, will he?’

  ‘No.’ He holds out his hand when Pepper walks towards him. ‘He said he rarely goes there.’

  ‘He liked the idea of having a country estate. Mum hated it, she finds it isolating, lonely.’

  Tor rubs between Pepper’s ears. He strokes her cheek and under her chin. She dips her nose and nuzzles his hip. She has a glossy black coat and trusting obsidian eyes. He has long limbs and a beautiful serious face.

  I pick up the empty buckets. ‘Should I meet you in Bowral?’

  ‘No, we’ll go from here directly to Garcia’s, and then onto Grasmere. It’s important we’re seen to be together. That includes travelling together.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me anything, are you? Just use me as bait, in the hope Alessandro will talk about my father.’

  His mouth is tight. ‘If we do this, it’s on my terms. I’d rather not have you there at all.’

  I made a promise to Tomas that I’d speak to him alone. In his email Tor made it plain he didn’t trust me to do that. But he’s helping me find out about my father and he’s concerned for my safety. I have to give him another chance.

  ‘You’d like to talk to Tomas as well as Alessandro, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I put the buckets down. ‘Tomas was scared when I saw him at Rosehill, I’ve already told you that. I think he wants to tell me what happened with my father, but he’s worried he’ll get into trouble because he did something wrong. That’s why I don’t think he’ll talk to you.’

  ‘If he won’t talk, we’ll rely on Garcia.’

  ‘I can talk to Tomas on my own.’

  ‘No. He talks to me or no one.’

  ‘I’ve just explained why that won’t work. Tomas isn’t dangerous, I think he’s afraid.’

  ‘You know that from seeing him once?’

  ‘I saw him when I was growing up as well. I’m good at reading people.’

  ‘Like hell you are.’

  Tor thinks nothing of me. I’m wasting my breath. ‘Forget it, then. I have to get back.’

  ‘To see to your leg? To ice it?’

  ‘No!’