Starting from Scratch Page 3

  ‘Yes, it’ll be mine.’

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘You’ve reminded me of something.’ I turn my mug in my hand. It was a gift from a student and is printed with red and bronze banksia flowers. ‘We rely on the council’s permission to run the youth centre at the farmhouse and to keep my horses there.’

  ‘It’s free.’

  ‘On the condition it’s used for community activities. What if they’d found out about the marijuana? You not only put yourself at risk, you put the program at risk. And you know better than most how important it is to a lot of the kids who go there.’

  ‘Best day of the week for Archie, hanging around with Freckle and Sonnet.’ He looks away and kicks the dirt again. ‘I get it.’

  ‘Bring your mum over to talk to me, and you and I can forget about this.’ I raise my arm. ‘Deal?’

  He slaps my hand. ‘Deal.’

  ‘Ow.’ I hold my hand close to my side as I walk down the path. ‘See you tomorrow morning.’

  I’m sitting on the end of my bed and brushing my hair, a second cup of tea steaming on the side table, when Tumbleweed jumps onto my lap. I tie a ponytail, before twisting it into a bun and securing it with pins. I push stray ends behind my ears. My eyes are darker than my mother’s, but we shared the same colours in our hair.

  Chestnut, cinnamon, coffee, chocolate.

  Gran, my paternal grandmother, once told me that the way I see colour is my superpower. When I laughed, she pointed to a newly opened flower—a gardenia—that I’d picked from her garden that morning. She asked me to describe the shades of the petals.

  ‘There are a lot, but …’ I turned the flower in my hand. ‘Porcelain, frost, cotton and pearl.’

  ‘Even as a toddler, you wanted to know about the colours.’ She smiled. ‘Your mum did her best, but it drove your father batty.’

  ‘I must take after you, Gran.’

  ‘In a few days’ time, the flower will age. What colours will it have then?’

  ‘I won’t know the shades until I see it.’

  ‘Because every flower is different.’

  ‘Flying would be a more useful superpower. What do I do with this one?’

  Her blue eyes twinkled. ‘Treasure it,’ she said.

  I reach over Tumbleweed for the tea and hold the mug with both hands. I blow on the surface and sip. The first school bell rings, letting the children know they can play in the grounds. Through the window, I see mothers, fathers and children on the footpath, chatting and laughing.

  When I meet Matts at the farmhouse this afternoon, I’ll listen to what he has to say. After that …

  I’ll pretend to forget him all over again.

  CHAPTER

  4

  After lessons are finished for the day, I go back to the schoolhouse to change before returning to the school grounds. A group of girls kick a football around the oval.

  ‘Hey, Miss Brown,’ Amy calls out. ‘Are you taking Strider out?’

  I fasten the buttons on my jacket before carefully stepping over the low wall to the netball court. ‘I won’t have time tonight.’

  ‘Can me and Mary look after Jet’s ponies tomorrow?’

  ‘Freckle and Lollopy would love that. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  I unwind my cotton scarf and drape it more loosely around my neck. Closing the gate behind me, I follow the track through the paddock. The clouds are heavy and grey, but there’s no rain forecast for another few weeks at least. I blow against my hands and put them into my pockets, cross the creek and step sideways up the incline, supporting my hip as I climb through the fence. Horseshoe Hill, the final bump in the Horseshoe Range, forms a backdrop to the farmhouse. The corrugated iron roof catches the light and shimmers; a rooster perches bravely on the lopsided weathervane.

  I’d lived in Horseshoe for only a week when I first saw the farmhouse. My high school was thirty minutes away and I had to catch a bus there and back. When another student peppered me with questions about why I’d been fostered, I got off the bus early, reasoning I couldn’t get lost if I followed the creek to the river in town. I’m not sure why I looked up, but when I glimpsed the chimney, sandstone gold against the bright blue sky, I changed direction. The twenty hectares of land surrounding the farmhouse was in reasonable shape because a neighbouring farmer leased it to graze sheep. But when I climbed over the gate on the far side of the paddock closest to the house, all I could see was an impenetrable wall of foliage. Only it wasn’t impenetrable, and the further I pushed through it, the more curious I became. First I found the small orchard, almost smothered by vines. Next I found the gardens, a mix of introduced and native plants. It was early spring and the wattle trees were in flower. The daffodils near the water tank, fighting through layers of weeds, were like dabs of yellow paint. The roses at the side of the house had wild thorny branches and tightly furled buds. The lilli pilli fruits were as big and shiny as cherries. I couldn’t see the boronia flowers, but could smell their crisp sweet scent.

  By the time I found the steps to the verandah, my arms and legs were scratched and my hair was a tangled mess. My school uniform was torn where the pocket had snagged on a branch. I peered through the windows and tested the latches; I pushed against the doors and rattled the knobs. I couldn’t get in but I knew I’d be back.

  I liked the weathered sandstone chimney and the shutters on the windows. I liked the red gum and the flowers and the rippling waves of grass.

  The verandah was mostly in shade, but the sun had found a way through the trees near the steps. I faced the house, lifted my hands and combed my fingers through my hair.

  I liked the sunshine on my shoulders. I liked the thousand shades of green.

  The farmhouse was neglected and friendless, damaged and abandoned. And so, I’d thought, was I.

  This could be my home.

  The trees in the farmhouse orchard are old and gnarled, but there are apples in autumn if the cockatoos don’t get to them first and, subject to the possums, there are oranges, cumquats and lemons in winter. The fruit on the tree closest to the back verandah is bright against the timbers. I pluck an orange, small but sweet smelling, from the lowest branch. After I’ve fed the horses, I’ll—

  ‘Sapphire.’

  Matts is standing a few metres away, wearing faded blue jeans and a navy blue sweater. His boots are city boots, shiny and brown with matching leather laces.

  I raise my chin. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’ I couldn’t see his eyes clearly last night, but in daylight they’re the same shades of grey I remember. His gaze slides from my eyes to my cheek. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘A little stiff, but … I’m well, thank you.’ I glance over his shoulder towards the sun, breaking through the clouds but low in the sky. ‘I have things to do before it gets dark.’

  I walk past him to the paddock at the side of the house where the horses spend most of their time. When I round the corner, Lollopy, a Shetland cross with a woolly black coat, nickers as he presses his chest against the gate. He belongs to my friend Jet Kincaid, as does Freckle, a grey pony even older than Lollopy. While Jet and Finn are in Scotland on their honeymoon, I’ve drafted the ponies into the equine therapy program.

  Unlike a lot of people around here, I didn’t grow up on a horse, but I was more determined to ride than make friends when I came to Horseshoe. Jet’s father was patient and encouraging when he gave me riding lessons, pretending not to notice how unhappy and uncommunicative I was. I’d been riding for over a year before he let me ride Chili Pepper, his late wife’s chestnut warmblood. Tears filled his eyes as he hoisted me onto his back. ‘You’ve got a good seat and gentle hands,’ he said. ‘Annabel wouldn’t mind a bit.’

  Sonnet ambles towards me. He’s in his twenties, a slow and placid ex-racehorse, perfect for building confidence in the kids who might be too anxious or aggressive to come into contact with other large horses. Strider, another gelding, and Prima, a mare, are thoroughbreds
too. I found Prima at the knackery. She’s bay, with a brown coat and black mane and tail.

  When Strider, black with one white sock, trots towards me, stopping only metres away, I hold out my hand. ‘How are you, boy?’ I stroke his neck before picking up his feet to check his hooves. They were split and an abscess had formed in one of them by the time he was rescued, so it’s no wonder he was lame. Even though he doesn’t often go on the roads, I have him shod once a month to get his feet back into shape. I trace the brand on his shoulder. He made money for his owners for a number of years, first on the city tracks and then on the country ones. But when he couldn’t earn his keep any more, he was sold as a pony club horse to a family that didn’t know his background. Within a month, he was sold again. And then again.

  He hasn’t thrown me off for a couple of months. ‘We’ll go out to stretch your legs tomorrow,’ I tell him.

  I ruffle Lollopy’s fuzzy black forelock as I pass and, holding out a hand, walk towards Prima. Only slightly less skittish than she was when she arrived, she doesn’t distrust only people but other horses—even Lollopy, who only reaches the tops of her legs. If she won’t settle, she’ll never work as a therapy horse. It wouldn’t be fair to Prima or the kids.

  ‘How are you, girl?’

  She takes a couple of steps towards me before shying away. She’s clearly aware of Matts, standing by the fence. He’s a stranger to her.

  And also to me.

  When I double back and walk to the small timber shed, Matts follows again, watching silently as I load biscuits of hay into a wheelbarrow. If we’d had more rain, there would be plenty of grass for the horses. I spread the hay in a pile for the ponies and in two different piles for the geldings. I take Prima’s share to her and after she’s taken a few mouthfuls out of my hand, I encourage her to follow me to the solitary grey gum, away from the others. As she eats, I latch a lead rope to her halter and stroke her glossy neck.

  ‘I hope you’re not too chilly at night.’ Being a thoroughbred, she doesn’t have a thick winter coat like the ponies, and she’s too fearful of the other horses to huddle with them for warmth. When I tried to rug her, even though she must have been rugged before, she was terrified, so I hang a rug over the fence near the feed trough to get her used to the look of it and the sounds it makes when it flaps in the wind.

  Ignoring Matts doesn’t mean I’m not aware of him. He crosses his arms and leans on a post as I run my hand down Prima’s legs and over her rump. She’s tall for a mare, well over sixteen hands, and is slowly gaining weight. I unclip her lead rope and thread my fingers through her mane. From the corner of my eye, I see Matts straighten.

  ‘I think he’s had enough of waiting.’ When I lift my hand to stroke Prima’s neck, she shies, skittering out of reach. Her wide brown eyes follow my movements as I slowly back away. ‘Wish me luck.’

  Matts leans against the gate as I walk across the paddock. When I throw my leg over the railing, he takes a step back.

  I’m the girl who loved you a lifetime ago.

  CHAPTER

  5

  My family moved back to Canberra not long before my fourteenth birthday. The leaves on the deciduous trees, liquidambars, poplars and maples, changed colour every day.

  Russet, burgundy, peach, pumpkin, ochre.

  Matts’s father had been appointed ambassador to Australia by then, so he and Matts lived in Canberra too. Mum and my father were officially still together. Unofficially, besides the social engagements my father couldn’t get out of, they led separate lives. Just as we’d done in Buenos Aires, Matts and I attended the same private school.

  For that first year, we saw each other almost every day. When Matts wasn’t at my house with Mum and me, I was at his. He was conscientious and dependable, arrogant and protective. I clung to him fiercely. Relied on him. Adored him. Until, soon after I’d turned fifteen, Matts told me I shouldn’t turn up unannounced any more. He said he was busy studying and playing sport and going out with friends, so I should call before visiting. But sometimes we’d make a time and he’d cancel, or have someone else with him. It was like it was no longer enough to be just the two of us.

  I missed him. I was hurt, angry and confused. My feelings for him were as intense as they had ever been, but our relationship had shifted. I resented his girlfriends. I wanted him to look at me.

  It was the last day of term when Matts secretly followed me to the lane behind the suburban row of shops, where trucks made deliveries and the skips were kept. It wasn’t the first time I’d handed money to the skinny man with the expensive black runners. He gave me a package, the drugs Mum had run out of again, and I handed over the envelope of cash. Mum would have preferred to do a bank transfer, but dealers didn’t work like that. Anyway, her account was linked with my father’s and he kept tabs on everything.

  When I walked around the corner, Matts was leaning against a wall. He was a school prefect and usually wore a blazer, but it must have been in his bag. He straightened, watchful and suspicious, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. I hadn’t put the package in my school bag yet, so it was easy enough for him to snatch it from my hand. He walked to my house and I followed, begging him to give back what was mine, but he was taller and stronger and I couldn’t get it out of his grasp. His face was set and he refused to even look at me. So I pleaded with him not to upset Mum by making a fuss. I told him she knew it was wrong and would never do it again, that I would never do it again.

  His lips were tight. He shook his head. ‘Your mother puts you at risk,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t pretend not to see it any more.’

  I was surprised he didn’t continue to tell me off for the ten minutes it took to get to the front gate of my house. But then again, I was doing what he wanted me to do.

  I saw my father through the glass of the wide double doors that led from the formal front garden, sheltered from the road by a tall pine hedge, to the lounge room. As the gate clicked shut behind me, I thought: He’s never at home on weekdays. Mum, wearing a fitted black dress with a wide white belt and oversized buttons, was standing at his side, facing him. When she grasped his arm, he didn’t turn towards her, he shrugged her off.

  Which was about the time I worked out what was happening. It was a set-up. My father wanted to confront Mum by using the evidence Matts held firmly in his hand.

  I stopped dead on the travertine path. Matts stopped too. When I held out my hand, it was shaking.

  ‘Give it to me, Matts. I won’t give it to Mum, I’ll get rid of it, I promise.’

  ‘I can’t, Kissa.’

  ‘He’ll use it against her. He’ll say she’s unfit to look after me. That’s what he’s been threatening.’ When Matts’s lips tightened again, I took a step back. ‘Is that what you think too?’

  ‘She puts you at risk.’

  ‘She’s my mother.’ I pointed to the window. Mum had her hands pressed against the glass and was crying. My father was standing next to her with his arms behind his back.

  ‘She needs help.’

  ‘And why do you think that is?’ I said, fighting back tears so I could get my words out. ‘He’s finished with her. He wants to be free of her.’ I took a shuddering breath. ‘She’s so sick she can’t leave the house. She’s of no use to him now.’

  ‘What she makes you do, it’s dangerous.’

  ‘That’s for me to judge!’

  ‘You’re too young.’

  ‘I’m fifteen!’

  I dropped my bag and scratched at his hand, trying to open his fingers. I grabbed his wrist with both hands and tried to pull him back to the gate. He walked on as if I weren’t there, stumbling along behind him. The front door was open by then and my father was standing on the threshold. As I let go of Matts, my father grasped me by the tops of my arms and bundled me inside.

  ‘Let her go!’

  I’d never heard Matts raise his voice. I suspect my father hadn’t either. He released me so quickly that I staggered and fell against the wall. Matts
held out his hand but I punched it away. I shoved him in the chest, again and again, as hard as I could. He didn’t defend himself; he stood with his arms by his sides, silently flinching.

  ‘I never want to see you again!’ I shouted.

  I saw an expression on his face, pain or anger or hurt or maybe all three, that I didn’t recognise.

  My father cleared his throat. He took the package from Matts’s hand. ‘You care about Sapphire very much, Matts. I am her father. So do I.’

  It was only then that I heard Mum’s sobs from behind the door that divided the lounge room from the hallway. When she opened it wide, the architrave framed her. She was wild eyed with withdrawal. Her face was smudged with make-up. She’d got alcohol from somewhere; I could smell it on her breath.

  For years my father had told the same story. How he’d seen a woman on a billboard and had fallen in love at first sight. Mum had been twenty-four, a successful model with a warm heart who liked expensive clothes, overseas travel and boutique hotels. My father was thirty, had a string of degrees and was a well-respected bureaucrat. Mum had given up her career so she could be with him and within a few years, I was born. A number of miscarriages followed.

  ‘Darling?’ The tips of Mum’s fingers were stained with mascara. ‘Don’t be frightened. Come over here.’

  ‘Sapphire?’ Matts said quietly. ‘I want to stay.’ His eyes were clear, with black and silver shards.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Matts.’ My father came between us. ‘This is a family matter. Please leave.’

  When Matts looked from my father to me, I took a step back. Mum held out a hand and Matts took it respectfully. ‘I’m sorry, Kate.’

  She hugged him. ‘Inge would be cross with me to see you so upset.’ She sniffed delicately and attempted a smile. ‘All will be well, I promise.’